this morning the sky is like sky-colour that's been washed out a few times like a dirty mouth. the leaves on the tree outside my bathroom window are falling ill and scronky. outside, the scent of moribund nature trills past my nose, as my nipples enjoy the stiffness. it's production time in my house, and i'm up, fittingly, with the crows to (w)rap shit up-- but not before drinking the most killer tea that ever there was. again, i love you, yerba mate. i mean love like i'd-want-to-have-your-babies-if-you-weren't-a-plant love. if anyone wants to try some, come to my house: you can have a cup with a crow.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
I'm up nice and early, too, but not for anything as exciting as Crow Bars. On the other hand, Kris Abbott and I are running the banquet machine here at the ol' Far Pints. Great being able to leave comments now. I'll be doing it all the time.
ye-fucking-eah.
Post a Comment